Winter days in this small countryside village where I grew up are short and bracing. The sky is a cold sheet of blue, grey, and white overhead. Almost every public footpath here is a track of churned up dark and wet mud, dark and dead leaves littering the way where the routes are tree-lined. January - the start of a new year; the festive season is on the wane and, hard as it might be to believe right now, in a couple of months, spring will be blooming and buzzing across the country.
When trying to find my footing - and not slide on to me bloomin' arse - as I have made my way down some of those slippery and muddy paths this winter, I have looked forward to the warmer months. "Oh," I think to myself, "In the summer months, hopefully, paths like these will be baked hard, and much easier to walk on!" And I am not the only one that appreciates the warmer months. The spring and summer are a time of life and abundance, when not only native animals exploit what nature has to offer, but visitors from distant lands make their way here too.
There is one little native bird though, a national favourite, that has become the star of winter. So much so, that it features on the cards and decorations that we use to celebrate our festive season. The little robin red breast.
When out walking today - through village, fields, and woodland - it's the song of the robins that dominates from trees and hedges. That brief bright and light flow of notes. Then a pause. And then another robin responds from somewhere with its own pretty little pattern. And I stop, underneath a tree, and try to find the singer up there, somewhere, amongst the bare branches. I gaze up, my eyes searching and ears listening, too stupid to understand what is being said, but in awe of the little bird anyway. Because, oh, that something so small can make a sound like that!
On another path, one of those country paths that are really just a stretch of mud with a few ankle deep puddles thrown in for variety, I spot another robin perched on a twig protruding form the hedgerow. It is only a few feet in front of me. I can see it quite clearly and it must be able to see me, as big and graceless as I am. But I stand still, and I just watch. It's a quiet path and there isn't much else to disturb the robin, so it just perches there, a few quick movements of its head and feathers, watching me back, I suppose. The bird doesn't fly away like others might - the robin is a brave little thing - and so I make the first move, trudging off along the path, and the bird flits deeper into the hedge.
(Photo from personal collection)
The robin has earned itself a reputation as the gardener's friend, the little bird that will sit atop the gardener's spade and wait for the chance to pick up fat little grubs from overturned soil. And there are plenty of videos out there, floating around on social media, of robins flying into the hands of bird lovers, attracted by a handful of seeds or nuts. I find them to be friendly and attractive little birds. They are definitely worthy of being a national favourite and, in my opinion, they are one of the stars of winter. For giving us beautiful song, even in these cold months, if for nothing else.
For more information on the robin, you can visit the RSPB website here (and, while you're there, don't forget that the Big Garden Birdwatch is on the way!)
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